16 Hours
by CoyGeek38
Summary: Ten years after Season 02, Matt runs into an old friend when his band tours the U.S. [Mimato]


16 Hours

A Mimato One-Shot

Inspired by Bob Seeger's "Turn the Page"

Trees fly past the wide window of the tour bus. It's the same scenery for a hundred miles. This chill Pennsylvania air fogs the windows as the heaters click on. The engine hums hypnotically, getting louder with each hill we climb. With a great effort, I lift my forehead from the glass and sigh, pulling my fingers exasperatedly through my hair. It has to be four in the morning.

I haven't slept for thirty-six hours, and I see no sign of it coming soon. I usually sleep like a baby after a concert, but not this time. When you don't sleep, everything seems like a dream. That's what I thought when she knocked on my dressing room door. She could have been a dream.

"Hello Matt," she had said, standing there in the doorway. It took me a moment to register good manners. I stepped aside for her to come in and offered her my chair.

I hadn't seen Mimi for eleven years, and I never imagined she would show up when my band toured the U.S. She looked good, like New York City had been kind to her. Kinder than the world had been to me.

I live on a pack and a half a day, a bottle of scotch, and the energy of screaming fans. Two years ago I was put in rehab for drug addiction; my euphoria of choice, Vicadin. I'm clean of that, but I smoke twice as much now.

Mimi took the seat with an easy motion I remembered from school. She sat up straight in her Ralph Lauren and high-heeled boots, crossing her ankles. She was assistant editor of a small fashion magazine, she had said, but she had offers elsewhere. I had fanmail saying kids wished they were in my shoes, but I knew Fate had dealt Mimi a much better hand. She had a big apartment, decked in IKEA and imported silks. At the moment I'm living out of this tour bus. I have bags under my eyes and a scabby tattoo on my ass. Mimi was a serene picture of health.

The shock took a while to wear off, but when it did, I felt a strong sense of bitterness toward her. Our short relationship during school had ended badly. We realized we were both too in love with ourselves to appreciate each other as anything more than friends. And then Mimi's family had picked up and moved to the Big Apple. I never expected to see her again, and at the time, it didn't bother me. Resentment welled up in me; I wanted to shout. She left us and found this great life. When I left Odaiba, I had to trade all the comforts for a little fame. Was it worth it? After a show, when I was riding a wave of adrenaline and flashy lights, I'd say, "Hell, yes!" But any other time, you'd see me doubting.

"You want a drink?" I had offered.

"Sure," she had replied, and I pulled a couple beers from the mini-fridge behind me. We had stared at each other for several minutes before either of us spoke again.

"So, what are you doing here?" I had asked, speaking before thinking about how rude I would sound.

"I heard about your American tour, that you'd be playing in New York," Mimi had replied, "and I got a ticket and backstage pass. I've been trying to keep track of where everyone is now, what they're doing. I take any chance I can to see them."

Of course. I would never have gone so far. I hadn't seen any of our old crew in years. Not even my brother.

"And? How are they?"

"Come on, Matt. If you really wanted to know, you'd have found out for yourself. You haven't been the greatest of friends." Her voice hadn't risen at all. There was no threat, but it bit me hard.

"I haven't been a good friend? What about you? You were a good friend when you just left me and moved half a world away?" I had turned away from her. I couldn't look at her when I said these things. I didn't want to see how her face contorted.

"Does if feel good to get that off your chest?" she had asked. I could hear the smile in her voice. My head hung, and I set down my beer. It had felt good, but that made me feel guilty.

The bus pulls off the highway at a gas station beside a little roadside diner. I shrug on my jacket and climb down onto the asphault. It's snowing lightly now, and I pull the collar tighter. As the driver refuels, two bodyguards follow me and the other guys across the grey parking lot to the diner. A bell rings over the door as we enter. I pause to shake the snow out of my hair and brush it off my shoulders.

The diner is well occupied for five o'clock. A line of older men sits along the bar, drinking weak coffee and talking about who knows what. A few tables are occupied by middle aged couples and singles. I can feel the eyes on me. I imagine we stand out a lot in this country crowd. A young girl sitting with, I assume, her grandparents looks up as we pass their table. Her eyes follow me, a look of recognition on her round little face. I sit at a booth by a window, and the boys take the booth behind me.

A greying waitress in a sky blue uniform approaches me and I order a cup of coffee and the short stack. The coffee comes quickly, and I empty three packets of fake sugar and two non-dairy creamers into the cup. It's still revolting, but I drink it anyway. The seat across from me looks cold and lonely, like a lost kitten, its cheap vinyl upholstery torn and fraying, discolored with age. My mind wanders as the waitress--her name tag says Charlene--refills my cup and I go through my bad coffee ritual again.

Mimi is sitting in the dilapidated booth across from me, sipping placidly from her beer bottle. I was back in the dressing room. I dropped my empty bottle in the waste bin and look at the clock. It was almost six o' clock. Grabbing a clean t-shirt--I think it was clean--I turned and told Mimi I needed to get ready for the show. She stood, leaving her own half-drunk bottle on the vanity. As she walked toward the door, I pulled off my shirt, half facing her. She had stopped at the door to say goodbye without my noticing.

"Matt," she had said softly. I looked up. There was a strange expression on her face that I couldn't place. She was looking at my arm fixedly. Glancing down at my shoulder, I understood. I had a tattoo there on my upper arm, dark blue, of the Crest of Friendship. Mimi approached me, her face now an image of tender pity and care. She touched my arm at the symbol inked there, and my skin tingled. I suddenly felt strange without my shirt. Her thumb moved lightly over the ink with a sigh, a faroff look in her eyes.

"I miss them," she had said. "I miss it all."

Her hand left my arm, and I could suddenly breathe normally again. She reached around the back of her collar and pulled a gold chain from under her blouse. I recognized the pendent immediately: the Crest of Sincerity.

"I had it specially made at Tiffany's when I got my big promotion," she had said, her eyes lingering lovingly on the metal and tiny emerald chips.

"Well," she tore herself from the necklace and slipped it back under her collar.

Charlene stands at the table with my pancakes, and my thoughts return to the diner. While I'm eating, the bus driver enters and orders a cup of coffee. The bus is ready to depart. And so am I. I can't wait to get this trip over with.

Mimi hasn't left the back of my mind yet. She's walking in front of me as I climb back onto the bus and sits across from me on an overly cushioned bench. She crosses her ankles and clasps her hands on her knees. The sun is rising through the skeletal forest of the Allegheny Mountains. The snow has stopped, and only a mist remains in the low places. It reflects the ruddy gold of the sunrise. I sigh again. I seem to be doing that a lot these days. As it gets brighter outside, I pull down the screen and close the curtains. Maybe I can drift off for a few minutes.

There is a squeal, and I think for a moment the driver is making evasive maneuvers. But Andy has just fired up the amplifier and struck a chord on his electric guitar. Chad joins in on his bass, and my ears start to ring. I get up and stalk grumpily down the bus. "Will you turn that shit off?" I yell over their noise.

"We're just practicing," Andy says.

"Some people need to sleep." I reach down and unplug the amp. "Shut up for an hour or something, 'kay?"

"Okay, somebody didn't need that coffee."

"I will kick your ass, Chad," I threaten, but my heart isn't in it. I turn and flip a cymbol off its hook. It hits the floor loudly, and I immediately regret doing it. I keep walking.

In my seat at the far back of the bus again, I sprawl out on my back, arm over my eyes. Why can't I sleep? My head is still ringing with the sounds of the instruments.

"I should go."

"What?" I ask. "Who said that?" I open my eyes, but the back of the bus is empty. I'm alone.

"I should go," I hear again.

Mimi was sifting through her purse. "Here," she had said, handing me something. A business card. "If you feel like being a friend, just pick up the phone."

I had stared at the card blankly for a moment. Mimi Tachikawa. (867) 555-9031.

She had moved to the door again. "Don't be a stranger." She had smiled and disappeared.

I hadn't seen her during the concert. Under those lights and in front of that crowd that usually thrills me, I had felt nothing. My fingers on the guitar had been numb but kept playing. Sweat beaded on my forehead and trickled down my back. I was miles away from the audience and the band and huge subwoofers, miles from my feet that stood on that stage and my hands on the guitar and my voice that kept singing. It couldn't have been any good, but I didn't hear any of it. The fans were screaming a million miles away, a giant heaving mass shrunk to ant-size by the distance.

I kept my eyes open, hoping to see Mimi come to say goodbye again when the tour moved on to its next stop. She didn't. I know. My eyelids were glued open, watching.

When the boys turned in, I hadn't joined them. There was no sleep waiting for me. I could only stare out the windows, watching images of New Jersey and then Pennsylvania go by, seeing her standing at every turnoff or in every car that passed us on the highway, remembering her every word.

Don't be a stranger. Over and over in my head. I glance at my watch and do the math. It's nine o' clock now. Sixteen hours since she knocked on my dressing room door in New York City. I feel around in the pocket of my jeans. The stiff paper of the business card is bent in two places. I do my best to flatten it, staring at the number printed on it. I pick up my cell phone, and as her voice enters my head, I suddenly feel like I could sleep.

The end.


End file.
